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I beat and pound for the dead; I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.
white locks at the runaway sun; I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags."
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life."
"Between my knees my forehead was,— My lips, drawn in, said not, Alas!
My hair was over in the grass, My naked ears heard the day pass."
grave illness, I gather up the pieces of prose and poetry left over since publishing a while since my
For some reason—not explainable or definite to my own mind, yet secretly pleasing and satisfactory to
And thee, My Soul! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations!
Thee for my recitative!
Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music!
the army hospitals, and his noble tribute to Lincoln (not so tender as the really rhythmic verses "My
Captain"), are things for young Americans to study.
its Dantesque horror, and then, brooding over brotherhood, union, democracy, sang 'Leaves of Grass,' 'My
Captain,' 'Calamus,' and all that me quoque which forms the essential germ of the Whitman gospel: egotism
because, being a woman, and having read the uncharitable and bitter attacks upon the book, I wish to give my
There are few poems which I can read with so intense a thrill of exultation at the greatness of my destiny
. ∗ ∗ ∗ The successive growth-stages of my infancy, childhood, youth and manhood were all pass'd on Long
–49) and I split off with the Radicals, which led to rows with the boss and 'the party,' and I lost my
And then such lapses as these: By my great oak—sturdy, vital, green—give feet thick at the butt.
An hour or so after breakfast I wended my way down to the recesses of the aforesaid dell ∗ ∗ ∗ It was
just the place and time for my Adamic air-bath and flesh-brushing from head to foot.
he screams to a gaping universe: "I, Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a Cosmos; I shout my
voice high and clear over the waves; I send my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the mist, From the thousand responses in my
O what is my destination? O I fear it is henceforth chaos!"
not live another day; I cannot can not rest, O God — eat Or drink or sleep, till I put forth myself, My
West, where "In a far-away faraway northern county, in the placid, pas- toral pastoral region, Lives my
farmer-friend farmer friend , the theme of my recitative, a famous Tamer of Oxen ." : This is a worthy
Me, master, years a hundred since from my parents sundered.
He explains his inspiration thus: Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It
He explains the limit of his happiness: I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To
touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand .
Whenever he does this he writes lines that will live—notably, his "O Captain, my Captain," inspired by
People who know absolutely nothing of his writing, either prose or verse, who have not read even "O Captain
, My Captain," do not hesitate to assail him, to excoriate him, to blackguard him with a vehemence which
I will also want my utterances to be in spirit poems of the morning.
I have wished to put the complete union of the states in my songs without any preference or partiality
Then the simile of my friend, John Burroughs, is entirely true, 'his glove is a glove of silk, but the
So says Walt Whitman in a foot-note to the little volume which he has just put forth ("Good-bye, my Fancy
Here is his poetical good bye:— Good-bye my Fancy! Farewell dear mate, dear love!
my Fancy.
Essentially my own printed records, all my volumes, are doubtless but offhand utterances from Personality
Indeed the whole room is a sort of result and storage collection of my own past life.
"One doubt nauseous undulating like a snake, crawl'd on the ground before me, Continually preceding my
and near, (rousing, even in dreams, a devilish exultation, and all the old mad joy, in the depths of my
forced to remember another son of the people, Robert Burns, and one involuntarily thinks of his "O, my
Love's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Love's like a melodie That's sweetly
(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was unreturned, Yet out of my love have I written these
hardly patience with a man who could offer the public lines like these, and call them poetry: "I tucked my
trowser-ends into my boots, and went and had a good time."
I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air.
My special word to thee. Hear me illustrious!
woodedge, thy touching-distant beams enough, or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my
lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.
or ambition to articulate and faithfully express in literary and poetic form, and uncompromisingly, my
say entirely my own way, and put it unerringly on record."
In another place the feeling of pride leads to this exclamation: "My Book and I—what a period we have
Difficult as it will be, it has become, in my opinion, imperative to achieve a shifted attitude from
These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet, For them thy faith, thy role I take, and grave it to
Whitman referred to Rossetti's edition as a "horrible dismemberment of my book" in his August 12, 1871
My Soul !
'Ve clof'led with him .... the yards entangled ...• the cannon touched, 895 My captain lashed fast with
I laughed content when I heard the voice of my little captain, \Ve have not struck, he composedly cried
-I put my arms around them-touch my lips to them .
my Fancy."
Not my enemies ever invade me—no harm to my pride from them I fear; But the lovers I recklessly love—lo
me, ever open and helpless, bereft of my strength!
Because my enemies clarify my ego by antagonism, while the mastery of my lovers is indistinguishable
from my own recklessness?
My individuality is yours, my thirst yours, my appetites yours,mydifferencesyours.Iamalikeinmydifferences
Candidly and dispassionately reviewing all my intentions, I feel that they were creditable—and I accept
Or rather, to be quite exact, a desire that had been flitting through my previous life, or hovering on
feeling or ambition to articulate and faithfully express in literary or poetic form and uncompromisingly my
in a few lines, I shall only say the espousing principle of those lines so gives breath of life to my
Difficult as it will be it has become, in my opinion, imperative to achieve a shifted attitude from superior
communed to- gether together Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; Was't charged against my
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,) Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance
That sport'st amid the lightning flash and thunder cloud, In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my
My Captain!"
My Captain!
Captain, 0 my Cap tain" surely one ofthe most tender and beautiful poems in any language.6 The misquotation
I sing the songfmy wallpaper, my ceiling, my floor, my doors, my windows, my around-rooms, under- and
My Captain!
my captain! our fearful trip is done!
Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my captain lies, Fallen Cold and Dead. O captain!
my captain! rise up and hear the bells! Rise up!
My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse
But I, with silent tread, Walk the spot; my captain lies Fallen cold and dead.
One of his own countrymen (a press correspondent) thus writes of him— The only American prophet to my
He has no respect for artificial barriers to poetic inspiration:— "In my opinion the time has arrived
In my opinion, I say, while admitting that the venerable and heavenly forms of chiming versification
"Yes, my brethren, oh!
And thee, My Soul! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations!
in a few lines, I shall only say the espousing principle of those lines so gives breath of life to my
Bless the Lord,O my soul!
my special word to thee. Who can be a companion of thy course!
lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights.
my Captain! our fearful trip is done.
O,the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
I thank my daughter, Myrth Killingsworth, an ecocritic in her own right, for being my writing companion
On hikes in the Smoky Mountains, one of my regular companions was my friend and major professor F.
Professor Miller directed my dissertation, which ultimately led to my first book, Whitman's Poetry of
just as I was saying good-bye to DeWolfe Miller and my friends in Tennessee and heading west where my
bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.
I do not press my finger across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and
Amelioration is my lesson, he says with calm voice, and progress is my lesson and the lesson of all things
I am the teacher of athletes, He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my
own, He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.
What is commonest and cheapest and nearest and easiest is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for
earth, she cried—I charge you, lose not my sons!
d; And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb—my young mens
coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?
"Song of my Cid" is an epic poem of the mid-12th century and the earliest surviving work of Spanish literature
There is a lawless saying, fit only for the wise, but full of meaning for poets and great captains,—
You know my motto: "Better than to stand to sit, better than to sit to lie, Better than to dream to sleep
Oh my captain! called Whitman."
This is why I send you My leaping verses, my bounding verses, my spasmodic verses, My hysteria-attack
Hydraulic pump tearing out my guts and my feeling it!
My soul! .. . My ties and ballasts leave me ...
My Captain!," "Come up from the Fields, Father," and "The Singer in Prison."
I can't think of the author's name—my memory plays me such shabby tricks these days—(though I should
The overall need for a work such as this became clear to me in 1996 when I was asked by my friend and
To my surprise, I found no definitive published scholarship on which to draw except for studies that
My task has been to interest both groups while filling in, to the best of my ability, gaps that may exist
face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl . . . away from me people retreat.
dur- ing my absence.
I have lost my wits . . . .
I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease . . . . observing a spear of summer grass.
roof, my doors, my hearth and home How sweet again to see the light and thee!
gab and my loitering.”
I know perfectly well my own egotism. . . .
I will put in my poems, that with you is heroism, upon land and sea. . . .
On my way a moment I pause, Here for you! And here for America!
of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clear- er clearer for my sake!
I rubbed my eyes a little to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is
I wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you
my respects.
Phantoms welcome, divine and tender, Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions; Follow me
Perfume therefore my chant, O Love! immortal Love!
For that we live, my brethren—that is the mission of Poets.
the sisters Death and Might, incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world. … For my
where he lies, white-faced and still in the coffin—I draw near; I bend down and touch lightly with my
All I mark as my own, you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time lost listening to me.
I know I am august; I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself, or be understood; I see that the
My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite; I laugh at what you call dissolution; And I know the
My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs; On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches
Before I was born out of my mother, generations guided me; My embryo has never been torpid—nothing could
; Or rude in my home in Dakotah's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the spring; Or withdrawn to muse
He even dates from the United States era; in 1856, he writes: In the Year 80 of the States, My tongue
place, with my own day, here.
List close, my scholars dear!
I approached him, gave my name and reason for searching him out, and asked him if he did not find the
over waves, towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar, Look off the shores of my
"My days I sing, and the land's:" this is the key-note.
I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship
That I walk up my stoop!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows; The air tastes good to my palate.
'My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite; I laugh at what you call dissolution; And I know the
, my Captain,' 'When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed.'
What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition.
You shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me.'
place with my own day here.'
captain!
Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O captain, my captain, rise up and hear the bells; Rise up, for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm—he has no pulse
But I, with silent tread Walk the spot my captain lies We have quoted enough, we think, even in these
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in
All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me: Now I stand on this spot with my Soul
Whitman says "no one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or
After celebrating and singing himself, he continues: "I loafe, and invite my soul."
Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art? . . .
son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day, One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd with
do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves.
Hither, my love! Here I am! here!
For instance, in section 35 of "Song of Myself," Whitman recounts a tale involving Amy's father, Captain
Buds" (1891)"Unseen Buds" first appeared in 1891 in the second annex of Leaves of Grass, "Good-Bye my
later editions.However, when read along with "The Unexpress'd," "Grand is the Seen," and "Good-Bye my
"[u]nfolded only out of the inimitable poems of woman can come the poems of man, (only thence have my
Thee, seated coil'd in evil times, my Country, with craft and black dismay—with every meanness, treason
—are but parts of the Venture which my Poems entirely are. (11) It is this type of indirection that
My Captain!": O Builder! My Builder!
My Captain!" several times (see Mad issues for April 1959, September 1967, and March 1983).
The song's narrator claims "I'd give my left lung to be hers for one night" and "she breaks my heart
'Leaves of Grass,' my ass!"
My Robot Friend (2004). Walt Whitman.
Townsend Trowbridge left a deft and important portrait of their relationship in his autobiography, My
In My Own Story Trowbridge relates how he first came across excerpts of Leaves of Grass while staying
accepted me on general principles and has never so far as I know revised his original declaration in my
little scholarship exists which examines Whitman's influence on Trowbridge but surely poems such as "My
My Own Story. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1903. ———. The Poetical Works of John Townsend Trowbridge.